


The Holy Falls

by GreyishBlue



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A Mysterious Bar, A Mysterious Gift, A Mysterious Stranger, Canon made some suggestions and I ignored most of them, First Meetings, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Linked Art, M/M, Pre-Hawkeye!Clint, Self-Esteem Issues, Seriously I glanced at canon once and chuckled, The longest roadtrip ever, Tony's robots are the best, angel!bucky, everyone lives in the tower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25162003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyishBlue/pseuds/GreyishBlue
Summary: Clint is tired of waiting for Barney in their shitty motel room. He's just gonna go get a few beers, stretch his legs, and not get into any trouble.It'll be fine.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 120
Kudos: 143





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The reference to Clint's childhood is brief and in no way graphic, but I wanted to make sure the warning was there just in case. I love you all and want to keep you safe. <3
> 
> Written for CBBB Square: 9, Gift/Present
> 
> You wanna see Bucky? Good cuz I drew him:  
> https://greyishbobbi.tumblr.com/post/622859424074219520

It’s a shitty bar in a shittier town, and Clint knows he shouldn’t be here. Barney had made it clear: Keep your head down, wait, I’ll be back in a few days. A few days had been a week ago, Clint is tired of motel vending machine food, and more dangerously, bored out of his skull. It’ll be fine.    
He tells himself that over and over, like it’ll be true by sheer force of will. Barney is gonna come back. Despite the tension since they had to throw together an escape from the circus, Barney is still his brother. Barney got him out when Trickshot was gonna kill him, and Barney wouldn’t just leave Clint here after all of it. It’s a mantra that’s feeling more threadbare with every repetition.   
  
He’s just taking a quick trip to the local bar, a hole in the wall that smells better than it looks. The aging sign proclaims it  **Holy Falls** , though he has to guess at a letter or two by the sun bleached silhouette that remains. The inside of the bar is predictable. Half of the furniture doesn’t match anything, the other half looks older than him or like it’s been used in a few fights. Clint is just glad the stale air isn’t full of cigarette smoke or that distinctive tang of unwashed drunks.    
His fingers itch when he spots an old faded target painted on the back wall, but he forces himself to the wooden bartop instead. Darts always ends one way for Clint, and it won’t count as keeping his head down, for sure.    
  
The bartender is politely dismissive, gives him a chilled beer while completely ignoring every ounce of his charm. Clint shrugs and resigns himself to drinking alone among the soft din of the other patrons. He keeps a wary eye out from his place near the end of the bar, though he doubts there’s anyone passing through here worse than he is.    
  
Two mind numbingly quiet beers later, he’s ready to jump out of his skin again. Being alone in a room full of people feels worse than being alone in the musty motel. He figures fuck it, no one in here is going to care about his aim, if they even bother to look up from their quiet tables. He saunters to the back wall, all casual like he’s gotta sneak up on it, maybe put on a show for the audience he definitely doesn’t have.   
It’s soothing in a similar way to shooting his bow, the rapid thunk of each dart hitting the target wherever he sends it. Each hit unclenches the knot in his chest a degree. Clint doesn’t take long to start making trickier shots, every one a burst of joy against the overwhelming worry he’s holding on to.    
  
Clint feels eyes on him, finally, when he’s got his own closed and three darts land in a perfect line all at once,  _ thunk thunk thunk _ . He doesn’t turn to look, just puts a little extra slink in his step when he goes to retrieve them. The feeling doesn’t ease, the prickle of attention insistent on the back of his neck. It takes some extra focus to keep making more unlikely shots while studiously ignoring the rest of the room.    
Either someone is going to come kick his ass in a minute, or they’re admiring his skills. He rolls up his short sleeves shamelessly and hopes for the latter. His luck is way too shit to get some action in Podunk, Nowhere, but maybe he can make a few bucks off of a cocky local boy trying to prove a point.

Whoever it is has more patience than Clint, his empty beer cup wins out over keeping his mysterious look going. He turns back to the bar, and the glass slips from his slack fingers. He doesn’t register the lack of shattering at his feet, eyes wide and overwhelmed as he tries to understand what he’s seeing.    
  
There’s a man leaning against the countertop, unfairly pretty and watching him with a grin stretching his cupid bow lips. It’s the wings stretched out from his shoulders - six of them glinting gold and shimmering softly in and out of view - that have Clint’s feet rooted in place. He’s all relaxed lines, one hand casually playing with a circlet that’s glowing gold, matching the eyes he’s got settled on Clint. And the eyes that flow in and out of existence among his feathers. 

No one else in the place seems to see it, or they’re just really good at pretending they don’t care. Maybe Clint’s in the midst of a really gorgeous hallucination with soft looking auburn hair falling in waves down his shoulders? Clint looks around - desperate that someone else see this - the feathers dragging along the counter behind the man, the dozens of eyes seemingly looking straight into him.    
  
Clint knows he’s been staring too long when the guy winks, the gold of his eye shifting to a mercurial blue for one heart stopping moment. Clint’s feet carry him forward like he’s been given permission, every step closer to the man raising the hair on Clint’s arms. He knows deep in his gut that there’s danger here, either from his mind slipping or whatever the man in front of him is.    
When Clint is close enough to reach out and touch, the man speaks up, voice startlingly deep and human where Clint expected something else.   
  
“What’s a circus brat like you doing in The Holy Falls, hm?”   
  
Clint answers, words tugged from his mouth without his input, “I’m scared that my brother abandoned me here, and I’m trying to get in trouble to feel something familiar.”   
He claps a hand to his mouth quickly enough that it stings. He can feel the blush flooding down from his ears, embarrassment and confusion mixed with anger as the man laughs. That, at least, sounds as inhuman as Clint expects, a sound like glass and bells and snow, somehow. 

“I’d say you’ve found trouble, don’t you think?”

Clint’s hand is still clasped over his mouth. He can’t trust that he won’t spill more words, isn’t sure if he could handle another burst of truth from himself. So he just nods, drops himself into the chair next to the man when he’s gestured to do so. A fresh beer appears next to him and he startles, glancing over to the other end of the bar where the bartender is serving another patron. They toss him a grin, the sparkling green of their eyes catching the dusty light, and Clint shudders. He preferred when everyone was ignoring him.

The man hums out a little questioning sound, and Clint’s focus snaps back to him. He can feel words curling behind his teeth, stinging the tip of his tongue. With a sigh he lowers his hand and says, “Maybe. You’re terrifying but you don’t look mean like my dad got when he was gonna be cruel.”

Gold darkens to black - for a moment Clint feels a deep true fear course through him - then the man takes his hand as gently as anyone has ever touched him and the fear slips away. The man’s fingertips are like brands to his skin, painless but more present than anything he’s ever felt. Clint watches as the wings fade into hints of themselves, soft shadows where before they were overwhelming. It takes him a while to realize the man’s hand is gold too, an intricate pattern that doesn’t settle into anything organic or mechanical while he’s brushing a thumb over Clint’s knuckles.    
  
“The world has treated you badly, hasn’t it, Clint?”    
  
“S’what I deserve.” Clint doesn’t flinch at the man knowing his name, frowns while he answers another undeniable question. 

The man tilts his head, confusion clear across those ethereal features. “Humans can’t lie to me. Yet that’s a lie… but, you believe it, don’t you?”   
  
This time Clint doesn’t have to reply, no compulsion leads him to nod, to stare down at his lap so he doesn’t have to face whatever expression graces the man next.   
  
“Is this all too much, sweetheart?”   
  
Clint whispers, “Yes.”

There’s so much weight in the silence that follows, only broken by the soft whirring of shifting plates in the man’s hand as he continues to caress Clint’s fingers. Finally, blessedly, the man leans in to press a soft kiss to Clint’s temple. It’s indescribable, the way those lips feel just brushing against his skin. There’s a tug of raw desire in Clint’s bones, something he’s never felt, even deep inside another person with their cries of passion around him. If the man hadn’t pulled back after the briefest moment, it would have been too much, too encompassing, too everything. 

“That’s alright. You’ll see me again, when you’re ready.” 

Clint looks up at that, into eyes that are an almost human blue, crinkled at the corners with a sad smile. He has to ask, “When I’m ready?”   
  


The man doesn’t respond, not bound by whatever rules dragged Clint’s answers from him. Instead he pulls a long, intricately wrapped box from behind himself. He sets it on the counter and gives it a little tap with his golden fingers. He nods, seemingly satisfied with whatever he’s decided, says, “Accept my gift, move on from this town. There’s more of the world out there for you.”

Clint can feel the urge to accept it curling under his fingers for a moment before it retreats, the man looking sheepish as he adds, “Sorry, old habits. This one is your choice, and yours alone.”

Clint spends a long minute looking carefully at the man, like he could root out deception from a being that is clearly something far beyond his human understanding. There’s nothing in those blue-sometimes-gold eyes but a hopeful earnestness. It’s the hope of it that has Clint speaking up, “Okay, but only if you tell me your name.”   
  
There’s a stutter to the sound all across the bar, and Clint can suddenly feel the attention of everyone in the bar focused on them. Every head is turned to watch, now, every one who had ignored Clint despite his best tricks now clearly invested in their interaction. The man’s eyes are wide, with surprise or delight or both. He leans in close like he’s going to kiss Clint again, but instead it’s a whisper of his voice that caresses the shell of Clint’s ear. 

“I’m James, and I can’t wait to meet you again, circus brat.”    
  
The way the words slip across his mind make Clint’s eyes flutter closed, and his heart beats harsh against his ribs at the promise behind them. When he opens his eyes, the man is gone. The rest of the patrons of the bar have their heads down again, like they had never looked up. Clint could almost believe he’d imagined it all, but his hand rests on the box that James left for him. 

He fishes out a few wrinkled dollars to leave on the bar, clutches the box to his chest as he hurries out. There’s no point in heading back to the motel, he knows. Instead, he carefully coaxes his old truck’s engine to life and picks the road leading out of town. 


	2. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint goes looking for meaning, finds a friend or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo uh.. I wasn't aware there was more to this story, but Clint insists. So here you go. 
> 
> This chapter fills Clint Barton Birthday Bingo Square 4 - Vacation

Clint drives his way through years. Stops when he needs to, earns himself some cash, fixes up the truck. Replaces enough parts that he’s not sure if it’s really the same one he’d stolen from the circus. At first, it feels like he's on the run. From Barney, or the thought of being really alone for the first time. From the pull in his chest whenever he looks at the gift James left with him.   
  
Time soothes him, as it passes. Every day he gets by on his own feels more like an accomplishment than punishment. He takes odd jobs; fixing up an old lady’s porch in one town, hauling lumber in another. Always moves on when people start telling him what a sweet young man he is, and doesn’t he have anywhere to stay?   
  


It isn’t perfect, but he isn’t looking for perfection. He glimpsed that once in a bar in his early twenties. The experience left him with a bow, glowing gold in a way that only he can see. And a dragging ache in his heart, unsure if he’ll ever be ready, or good enough, to meet James again.   
  
His marksmanship was excellent before, good enough to headline shows wearing glittery purple tights. With the bow? Clint is fairly sure he can’t miss. When he tries it, aiming in a way that could never land his target, the secluded clearing of forest sparks gold. His arrow ends up impaled through a falling leaf and too deep into the tree behind it to retrieve. Just on the edge of his hearing, a laugh that thrills down his spine like a winter breeze. When he turns frantically looking for the source, there’s nothing to find.    
  
Clint goes looking, of course he does. He can’t forget that night, vivid in his dreams, and some nights he convinces himself that he’s ready. The pang of loneliness in his heart is sometimes louder than the voice whispering that he’ll never be good enough.    
The first time he tries to find the bar again, he’s surprised to find he has the name of the town wrong. Just a few letters off, but he could swear it had been different. The building at the end of the mostly familiar street still has a half fallen sign,  **Eden’s Apple** flickering red above a grocery store’s soaped over windows. Clint stands in front of it, uncomprehending, long enough that a shy teenage clerk comes to check if he’s alright.   
  
The second time, wrapped in hope and faded blue jeans, he ends up lost in the countryside for hours. He spends a miserable night in a motel room that his bones recognize even while his eyes insist it isn’t the same.   
After that, he can’t find the town by name on any map he buys, and most of them seem to disagree about the topography of the entire county surrounding it. It stings his heart to drive away empty handed again and again. Each time he pours himself into finding more work, trying to help his way into being worthy.   
  
He teaches archery to kids who would be looking for booze or trouble otherwise. Starts more than one local pet adoption event as he moves through town after town. He sometimes allows a person close enough to taste their skin and finds comfort in their arms. Kisses feel hollow when he can’t help but look for gold in them. It’s always too quiet in the mornings after, warmth lacking from a bed he’s slept alone in.   
  
The one person that stays strikes a chord in him like a harmony. A slight but powerful redhead that laughs with and at him in equal measure. She pulls back from that first kiss and looks at him in a way that makes him instantly wary. She graces him with a few more kisses, gentle things against his cheeks and brow. It doesn’t feel like rejection when she tells him they’re not compatible that way. She curls her small frame into the cage of his arms and sleeps there, soft and warm. It feels more intimate than any other people in his bed, even when they were writhing under his questing fingers. He sneaks out in the morning, ignoring the feeling of eyes on his back as he closes the motel door. 

  
He buries the twinge of guilt in more work. Uses his fists and the threat of his bow to protect a beaten dog from a group of teens too filled with anger to back down until he knocks a few onto the ground. He spends a month straight in that town, earning enough to cover every vet bill. Then a collar and car blanket when the receptionist tells him, eyes full of pleading, that no one is going to adopt a dog with one eye and a limp. Lucky is more popular than he is when Clint is doing fairy-tale readings at the library, but Clint can’t bring himself to mind.    
  
In the quiet moments between jobs, when the road stretches out in front and behind him, he sees glimmers. Rain falls and catches light on his windshield in shades of gold, always gold.    
  
The redhead shows up again a year or so later, no judgement in her clever eyes for his disappearing act. He finds her standing next to his truck, outside a gas station with her fingers carding through Lucky’s soft golden fur, the both of them looking like they’re in on a joke Clint didn’t hear. It’s awkward introducing himself to a woman he’d shared a bed with, but the staccato of Lucky’s tail thumping against the truck bed helps.   
  
Natasha appears after that with no rhyme or reason. She’s a powerhouse in a way he’s yet to master; finds him new projects, people to help, resources he couldn’t have secured himself. Watching her charm fools from their money makes him laugh harder than he thought he could. She never asks anything of him that he can’t give. Still, he slips away in the night when it feels too much. He doesn’t know how she keeps finding him, but he’s more glad for her presence each time he sees her. It makes the long trail of towns in his rear-view feel like they have meaning when he can tell her about them.  
  
It's an alright life, and he keeps driving through it, looking for something he can't quite name.  



	3. Belief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha makes an offer, Clint accepts it. He just hopes she can accept him, along with his impossible secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your interest in this story, the comments have given me so much life! 
> 
> This fills my Clint Barton Birthday Bingo Square 2 - Aw, Truck, No.

A decade after Clint meets James in a nowhere town - his life turned sideways and dipped in gold - Natasha asks him to come work with her in New York. They’re standing next to his truck, rust covered and with a thin column of smoke curling from the dead engine. She’s there to rescue him, the only number in his barely working cellphone. Lucky is panting happily by their feet, headbutting each in turn for the distracted pats it earns him.    
  
She asks in that same careful voice she used the first night they’d spent together. The question is gentle, one of the few things she’s ever asked of him. He thinks back to their friendship, stuttered through the years and filled with her mysterious appearances. She knows what his answer is going to be, he can see it in the wry grin she flashes at him when he hesitates.    
  
“What do you even do, Nat?” He feels ridiculous asking her that, his only real friend in the last four or five years he’s known her, depending on how he’s counting.    
  
“I help people, Clint.” Just like always, her words are layered with meaning. But for once, it’s obvious enough in the way she looks at him that even he can’t miss it.   
  
He glances down to Lucky’s endlessly trusting face; Nat’s easy and open smile; the dead truck that’s forcing a choice he couldn’t or wouldn’t have made himself.   
  
“Okay, yeah. But first, I have to tell you something.” Clint tries to keep the trepidation from his voice, mostly fails if the way Lucky starts licking his fingers is any indication.   
  
“Is it about the person you’ve been pining over this whole time?”

Clint blinks at her, slow and unbelieving, “What?”   
  


“You know, the reason your heart isn’t in it when you’re kissing someone.” She’s talking gently - like he might bolt - which is fair considering the itch in his feet insisting he get the hell out of there.   
  
Clint slumps down to the ground until his ass hits unforgiving pavement, Lucky immediately making himself at home in his lap. He lets his head fall back to thump against the truck door and says, “I… well, fuck. Yeah, I guess so.”   
  
He tells her the story like that, eyes closed and fingers carding through Lucky’s fur for comfort, more his than the dog’s. He doesn’t look at her while he talks because he knows how crazy it all sounds. His voice betrays him and cracks when he tries to describe James, lost in the memory of it. 

  
Nat folds herself down next to him, as graceful as ever. He feels her hand gently fold over his so they’re both buried in Lucky’s scruff. The light leeches from the day as he haltingly explains the weirdest night of his life. He only meets her eyes once he’s done, grateful for the twilight. He’s surprised to find only curiosity there where he expected disdain, or at least disbelief.   
  
“So that’s why you don’t let anyone touch that bow.”   
  
Clint snorts, “That’s all you’ve got to say?”   
  
“You’ve never once given me a reason to not trust you.” She squeezes his hand gently, “Do you want me to be skeptical?”   
  
“I mean… a little bit would be nice.” He mumbles through a pout that Lucky promptly tries to lick off his face.   
  
Nat makes a considerate little humming sound and says, “Okay, show me the trick with the bow, then.”   
  


Clint laughs, of course she’d skip to the most sensible solution in an impossible story. He nods and collects what little he owns from the bones of his truck. It’s more Lucky’s stuff than his, and they make quick work of loading it all into her car, a muscular machine that looks older than he is - just better taken care of.   
  
Nat drives them to an old campsite, completely disregards the signs against trespassing as she weaves carefully along a disused road. Clint can feel his nerves jangling as they hop the gate and wander far enough in that there’s no chance of anyone seeing them. Some part of him is unreasonably certain this will be the moment that proves James and everything about him was the fever dream of a younger, frightened and lonelier version of himself.   
  
They pick out one of Lucky’s tennis balls as a sacrifice, Nat’s grin toward him looking as excited as he is nervous. He turns away from her and draws the bow slowly, watching as gold drips from the string in trails behind his fingers. He knows she can’t see it, no one that’s watched him shoot has ever mentioned any magical looking bullshit happening with his bow. He just hopes that the dramatic light show from his first experiment with this isn’t bound by the same rules. His eyes slip closed, no point in looking for his target when it’s behind him and in the near-dark of the moonlit forest.    
  
He can just make out the muffled crackle of leaves under Nat’s feet, then her deep inhale before she throws, “Loose!”   
  
He lets the arrow slip free and the glade bursts into golden light strong enough that it flashes through his closed eyelids. He spins on his heel when he hears Nat gasp, the surety that he’s hurt her somehow flashing through his chest. 

She’s staring down at halves of the tennis ball on either side of an arrow shaft buried almost entirely in the ground. It’s the first time he’s seen true shock on her face, and he has no control over the bark of laughter that escapes him.    
  
“I uh… told you so?” Clint rubs the back of his neck self consciously as he watches her pick up one of the pieces to inspect it. The arrow gets left in the ground, embedded too deeply to retrieve.   
  
That’s how Clint ends up in the passenger seat of a rumbling old Charger with Lucky happily spread out on his blanket in the backseat among all of Clint’s worldly possessions, headed for New York and whatever job Nat has for him.


	4. Congregation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint arrives at an ostentatious tower, tries to settle in among a group of extraordinary people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow we are almost at the end! It's all written, so don't fear the wip!
> 
> This fills my Clint Barton Birthday Bingo Square 3 - Sunburn

It takes Clint most of a day to relax his body; tense with the knowledge that he’s heading to something solid, not just another small town he can ghost through without making any real connections. Nat gives him time to brood with his face pressed against her passenger side window, occasionally tempting him into meaningless on-the-road word games.

  
Lucky seems to be having a great time with an entire backseat to himself, rolling his golden body luxuriously and letting out happy little dog sounds that keep Clint’s anxiety from overwhelming him entirely.    
  
The warm sunlight filtering down lures him down into sleep, his long limbs cramped awkwardly in the car when he curls up. He sleeps long enough that the landscape has changed entirely by the time he opens bleary eyes, and his skin feels too warm along the half of his body he’d smooshed near the window. 

He ends up talking Nat into letting him drive the last leg of the trip, asking her if she really wants him only half covered in the freckles that sneak onto his skin whenever the sun bakes him.

She gives him directions, but he still thinks he's pulled into the wrong garage, even as she's swinging the back door open to coax Lucky out. The building they're under is big in a way he knew existed, but only vaguely, and the vast expanse of concrete above them seems impossible.   
  


Clint spends long enough gripping the steering wheel that Lucky starts whining and Nat ends up opening the door to offer him a hand out.

"It's been a long time, Nat." He doesn't explain himself, hoping she understands the weight of what she's asking him to do here.

"If you hate it, I'll steal a set of Tony's keys. You can get another ten years out of one of his cars easy." 

Clint knows she's serious under the joking tone, that she wouldn't blame him if he had to leave, just like she's never blamed him before. He turns the engine off, gives her car a little pat of thanks out of habit. He follows her into an elevator that politely asks which floor they'd like, which makes Clint jump and Lucky's tail start wagging while he looks for the new friend.

"Natasha. Why is the ceiling talking to us?"

[ _ If I may? My name is JARVIS, I'm the building you are currently occupying, and the operator of all of the systems contained therein. _ ] The voice is polite, and vaguely British.

"Am I hallucinating?" Clint asks, eyes scanning the elevator to locate the source of the voice.

[ _ Unlikely, but I can connect you with a medical professional if you require further confirmation. _ ] 

"It's alright, Jarv, Clint is just being dramatic. Could we have the communal floor, please?"

A bright cheerful tone plays and the elevator starts moving smoothly upward while Clint sputters and tries to come up with a good rebuttal to her remark. Lucky has no sympathy for his plight, happily pressing his body against Nat's legs while she scratches his favorite ear spot.    
  


The doors slide open soundlessly and Lucky shoots out in front of them, eager to explore whatever new place his people have taken him to. Clint hangs back, worry etched in his features, until he hears crashing sounds followed by a delighted laugh mixed with cursing in another voice. 

"Luck, get back here!" Clint calls out, old sneakers sliding on hardwood as he tries to catch up with his overeager dog. He trips over an edge of carpet, pretty sure he's going to introduce himself to Nat's friends by smashing his face into a table and bleeding all over the nice furniture. 

He stops a few inches from the tabletop, a strong hand in the scruff of his shirt holding him up from his first potential disaster of the day. 

"You must be Natasha's fix-it project?" Asks the concerningly strong blond - Clint isn’t a small dude and he’s being held up casually with one hand - looking down at him with amusement all across his finely sculpted features.

Clint does his best to look respectable as he scuttles back onto his feet, blush creeping across his ears when the man helps straighten his shirt back into place. He offers a hand in greeting, says, "I'm Clint, thanks uh…?"

"Steve! Steve Rogers, good to meet you. That your dog?" Steve is grinning at him, clearly filled with amusement as he glances over to where Lucky is aggressively making friends with everyone else gathered in the nearby kitchen area.

They're all looking curiously over, and Clint feels a wave of terrifying inadequacy. Each person seems prettier than the last. Nat fits in perfectly with them, already at ease perched on the countertop with her feet dangling. He manages to stutter out a reply when he realizes Steve is still waiting for one, "Uh, yeah. That's Lucky, he's the best dog." 

Steve grins at that, wide and honest, "Looks like it. I think he already won Tony over. It's gonna be awesome to have a non-robot pet around here. If you stay. Natasha said you might want to?"

Clint finds himself smiling back, always a sucker for someone that likes dogs. The way everyone else seems happy to keep their distance and focus on Lucky helps, and Clint wonders just how much Nat might have told them. He's trying to figure out how to explain that he doesn't really know what the fuck he's doing at the moment when Steve places a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

"Hey man, you don't have to decide anything right now, yeah? Lemme show you the rooms we put together for you?"    
  
Clint nods, grateful for the reprieve. He’s definitely not freaking out about having multiple rooms ready in a solid place when the last decade of his life was anything but. He follows Steve, knowing Nat will make sure Lucky is fine amongst the strangers that he’s supposed to be greeting.

Steve is kind, quieter than Clint would expect from a guy his size, and helpful almost to the point of nagging. He shows Clint around his rooms, then drags him through enough different communal areas - all helpfully empty - that Clint’s mind feels like spinning.   
Somehow Tour Guide Steve times it just right to offer an invite to dinner as they’re done. Clint must look as cagey as he feels, Steve quickly adds that the invite isn’t mandatory and leaves Clint to his decision with a cheery wave.   
  
Clint doesn’t join them for dinner that night, or the next. The idea of a room full of people getting to know him still doesn’t settle right, and Lucky seems perfectly content to snooze on one of the couches that they apparently have to themselves. Robots keep delivering meals and assorted dog toys to his door - he falls in love with their happy beeps - it feels kind of like an oasis of calm among his worries.   
  


Nat tells him he's got some time to settle in and drops off the weirdest job orientation folder possible. He decides he really needs to stretch his and Lucky's legs when he gets to a chapter titled "Doombots and You! A Hero's Guide to Annoying and Numerous Villain Minions"

There's a ridiculous outdoor garden on the rooftop, more grass and trees spilling over its expanse than he's seen in some small towns. Clint loves how much of the city he can see from the edges, and Lucky goes bonkers for a bucket of tennis balls with his name helpfully scrawled on the side.

He meets Sam up there, immediately drawn to the man's mechanical wings. They're silver and red where Clint longs for gold, but beautiful all the same. Sam's easygoing manner mixed with his deep sarcasm goes a long way to unwinding Clint's trepidations.

Clint laughs himself nearly hoarse at Lucky's offended face when the beautiful bird Sam owns doesn't think much of him. She does, however, haughtily allow Clint to stroke her feathers. Lucky finds that even worse until Sam locates the good belly rub spot, then they're both forgiven.

It's weird to realize he's making a friend he could keep around, if he decides to stay. Clint thinks he might like the feeling.

He meets the rest of them in similar ways. Clint finds himself grateful for his early introduction to the impossible; beyond their powers they're just slightly odd people, hanging out in various extravagant places. 

Clint finds Bruce puttering around in the kitchen when Clint drags himself in for coffee after a restless night. His bed is too comfortable some nights after so long in motel beds and car seats.

Bruce cooks him a curry that's soothing down to his bones, quietly talking Clint through the steps and sneaking ingredients to Lucky when he thinks Clint isn't paying attention.

Tony he trips over, literally, as he's leaving his room. Clint ends up recruited to fix a robot that's part roomba, part delivery system. Having his hands fiddling carefully is nice; the familiar puzzle of an ornery machine makes him miss his truck, but only for a moment. Then the robot wakes up as they replace the last panel, beeping out a jingle that's distinctly in thanks. Clint's heart melts a little bit and he pats it, the same soft tap he always did against his dashboard.

Tony only actually introduces himself once they're done working on DOC, offering a hand covered in grease. Clint takes it, thrilled enough with a job well done that he forgets to be intimidated by the money or reputation he's heard of.

They spend so long sitting in the hallway among scattered tools, discussing possible cool additions to the tower, that JARVIS has to prompt them about dinner. Clint finds himself dragging Tony there after the AI gently notes how many meals have been missed lately in Tony's workshop. 

That first group dinner does feel a little awkward and stilted, at least to Clint. Everyone else around the table seems content though, especially with Lucky doing the rounds and getting attention from them all in turn.

Clint figures he can show up to these things more, in the future.

Wanda and Pietro try to enlist him to settle an argument over a movie he's never seen. When they hear that, he ends up between the siblings on a couch with a large bowl of popcorn set in his lap and Lucky across his feet.

Clint gets so caught up in their banter and the zombies on screen that he never thinks to be uncomfortable, they just slip into the circle of people he thinks of as friends.

He does have a moment later that night where his breathing goes funny as he realizes there's an actual circle now, not just a dog and one nosy redhead. 

DOC bumps up against his ankle while he remembers how to breathe through the spike of anxiety, he absently reaches down to pat the bot and smiles at the series of beeps.

This place doesn't seem too bad, really. Clint thinks he can maybe get used to having some people around. 


	5. The Fallen Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has settled, he's found joy in his new life, even if he has nights where all he can dream of is gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it! Thank you to everyone who left me such amazing comments! I also appreciate all the speculation, and gosh golly, I definitely didn't leave any extra mysteries here for you!
> 
> This fills my Clint Barton Birthday Bingo Square 8 - Balloons

Months pass in a whirlwind of bizarre fights across New York, a rotating cast of bad guys ranging from boring bank robbers to an honest to god mecha-dinosaur stampede across Central Park. The chance to really use his bow and hard earned archery skills is freeing and exhilarating.   
  


Clint ends up injured somehow more often than not, but one of his team always drags him into medical. They’re stubborn about it and won’t listen no matter how many times he tells them it’s fine.    
  
After a while he starts being more careful just to avoid the doctors and their knowing sighs. The first time he makes it back with only a scrape along the side of his nose, they throw an honest to god party. There’s cake, and a ridiculous amount of balloons; Clint spends the entire time blushing bright red and laughing with his asshole teammates.    
  


He still skips some dinners and outings, spends time curled up around Lucky and longing for another golden being, pouts in his room when his mind won’t leave him alone. It happens less with time; he keeps coming back to them, hungry for more of Steve’s old war stories or Wanda’s gentle singing.    
  
He still finds projects for himself, makes friends with the residents of a building in Bed-Stuy they liberate from something Pietro describes disdainfully as a “track-suit mafia”. Fixing up the building is familiar, even if it goes a hell of a lot smoother with the Maximoff twins helping out.    
  
Pet adoption events also end up far more extravagant than Clint ever managed on his own, pulling in crowds that stun him. Tony refuses to hear a word of thanks, or even admit his part in the advertising. When Clint jokingly threatens to shoot down one of the iron suits that’s flying banners around the city, Tony just smirks and dares him to try. Clint’s fingers itch, knowing full well that he could make the shot, even if it might spark the world around them in gold. He just barely keeps himself from doing it, instead he talks DOC into delivering purple cupcakes up to Tony’s lab and calls it good.   
  
It’s during a fantastic dinner of Wanda’s making - something called Paprikash - that Clint’s world slides sideways again.    
  
JARVIS speaks up, somehow managing an edge of panic to his mechanical voice [ _ Sir, there is an unauthorized individual in the elevator. _ ]   
  
“What? How did someone get that far, J?” Tony says, raises an arm and moments later one of his gauntlets click into place over his outstretched hand.   
  
[ _ I apologize, I did not register a presence. Lockdown procedures are in effect. _ ]

Despite JARVIS’s statement, the elevator continues to whirr softly as it ascends. Whoever exits it is going to be faced with the wrath of an entire team of people rightfully pissed about having their dinner interrupted, and Clint feels a little sorry for them.    
  
The doors slide open, and a man steps forward, casual and easy like he belongs there. Auburn hair falls disheveled across his shoulders, framing a face that stops Clint’s heart in his chest. He raises one hand, apparently in cheery greeting, and the light reflects from dull silver where Clint expected shimmering gold.   
  
“James?”   
  
“Bucky?”   
  
Clint and Steve speak at the same time, then glance over at each other, more confused than ever.    
  
James laughs, a human laugh, lacking in snowfall or ringing bells. 

Tony interrupts whatever else they were going to say, “Alright, maybe someone should tell me what the hell is going on here, and whether I need to shoot this very scary looking dude?”   
  
Clint gasps out, “No!” as he immediately puts himself in front of the gauntlet pointing toward James.    
  


Tony lowers it immediately, unwilling to do anything that might hurt someone he cares about, though he’s got a complicated mix of confusion and distress across his features. The rest of them slowly step back, fight draining from them as they stare questioningly from Clint, to the new arrival, then back to Steve. Nat is the only one that looks unconcerned, a smug tilt to her lips that Clint is used to only seeing after successful missions.   
  
“It’s… that’s Bucky. How can that be Bucky?” Steve’s voice is a little lost, and oh boy does Clint relate to that feeling.   
  
Clint almost whispers, “Hey Jarv, could you… am I hallucinating, this time?” 

[ _ I do not believe so, Mr.Barton. _ ]

James stands calmly, waiting them out. It’s Clint that finally steps forward, his feet carrying him without much of his own input. He stops when he’s close enough to reach out and touch James, nerves singing and hands shaking. This close, he can see a ghost of shadow near James’s shoulders, but the rest of him looks startlingly human. The silver arm is beautiful in it’s own way, but Clint has a hard time looking at the harsh mechanical lines of it, lacking the fluid organic movement he recalls from his youth.   
  
“You’re real?” Clint hates how soft and broken his voice sounds, but he gets the words out, just barely.   
  
“I’m real. Missed you, circus brat.” James smiles, a soft thing that wrinkles up his eyes. He reaches his silver hand out slowly, offers it palm up to Clint. He doesn’t seem to care that there’s a room full of people watching them, his icy blue eyes focused only on Clint.   
  
Clint takes his hand, how could he not? Gold blooms across his palm where Clint’s fingers rest, his eyes sparkle and shift into the same warm shade.    
  
Clint’s breath catches at the sight, something tight in his chest unfurling. His voice is a little steadier as he says, “I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again. I looked for you.”   
  
“I told you, sweetheart, I’d meet you again when you were ready.” James caresses a thumb over Clint’s knuckles, the warmth of it feeling the same as the memory Clint has been holding onto for so long.   
  
Clint feels a twinge of anger at that, at how long it’s been, grinds words out between his teeth, “You were gone for ten years! I half convinced myself you weren’t real!”   
  
“You didn’t need me, you needed to find love for yourself.” James replies, maddeningly calm.   
  
“What? I don’t… I’m not. There isn’t anyone like that.” Clint stutters, heart racing suddenly. Did James come here just to leave him alone again?   
  
“Oh, doll.” James soothes. He pokes a finger at Clint’s chest, “Look around you, look here. You’re loved and you love.”

Clint feels his heart do something confusing and uncomfortable as he scans the room, the faces of his friends in various expressions ranging from concern to encouragement. Steve looks like he’s ready to fight James, even though they seem to share some complicated history of their own. 

Clint momentarily considers letting him, more than ten years of waiting still curled like a weight in his chest. But James is looking at him with something like hope in those mercurial golden eyes, and Clint doesn’t think he could deny himself the chance he didn’t take in his youth.    
  
“James… could you - ” Clint pauses, terrified of the answer but needing to ask, the wanting desperate in his bones, “- could you kiss me?”   
  


James’ smile is startled joy, bright without needing any of his gold to dazzle Clint’s eyes. He doesn’t answer, just steps forward to bring their lips together, gentle and careful like he might break Clint.   
  
Clint gasps as he finally feels the press of James’ mouth against his own. Warmth floods down his spine, his eyes slip closed and he whimpers softly. James takes advantage of the sound, deepens the kiss and threads his golden fingers through Clint’s hair to hold him closer. Clint melts into the feeling, kisses back and pours every moment of longing into it like he can make James understand how badly he wants this.    
  
Time means nothing against the solid press of James’ body, the questing of his tongue, the strength of his hands where they’re holding Clint close. Clint only pulls back when he hears a disgruntled throat clearing from somewhere behind him, eyes fluttering open to glare back at whomever dared interrupt this moment he’s been waiting for.    
  
He doesn’t get as far as the glaring, though, too entranced with the shape of wings above them, wrapped around their bodies, feathers close and dipped gold.    
  
Clint feels worry curl around his joy for a moment before James is leaning in and whispering against the shell of his ear, “Only you see them, sweetheart.”   
  
“Oh, then I only have to explain a dozen other things, that’s nice.”    
  
James laughs, snowfall in his voice, and Clint can’t help himself. He leans in again, presses another kiss to James’ willing mouth, just to watch the golds of him flare around them. 

Clint just manages to drag himself back from the sunlight warmth of the kiss before he can get lost in it again, says, “Come on, let me introduce you to my family.”


End file.
